I'm Not a Feminist, But

I think that maybe, possibly, life might be different for girl doctors than boy doctors. 
Not better or worse, just different. 

Let's get a few things straight first.

I have never burned a bra, though some of mine are so old and dishevelled they could very easily just self-combust. 
I shave my armpits frequently, legs slightly less so. ("Good Things About Chemo: Number, eh, the Only One" - body hair growth tends to zero). 
I am very fond of lots of males.
I am more than happy to let someone else take out the bins. That is not a euphemism.

So I don’t fit my own stereotyped view of a feminist.

I am, however, perfectly willing to acknowledge that women have had, historically, the soggy pre-chewn dragged-in-the-mud end of the stick. We have a track record of getting shat on. And it is taking a while for that legacy to shift. 

In 1879, there were nine women doctors in the United Kingdom. A whole nine. 

Those nine women, as ladies do, had a chat.  
They thought, girls, let’s do lunch so we can chat some more. 
Let’s chat about how our patients think we’re nurses, and how we aren’t even sure how we feel about that - nurses are nice, kind, caring - are we not allowed be that too? 
Let's chat about how the man doctors are inclined to ask us to bring them tea. 
Let's chat about how, even though we work ten hours a day, we will still find ourselves being the ones at home reaching under the bed looking for the missing teddy or rubbing the jam off the door handle.

Those women were mighty. They started the Association of Registered Medical Women, which developed into the Medical Women's Federation in 1917.

In 1919, 140 women from 16 different countries met up for a similar chat, and started the Medical Women's International Association. Their provisional constitution had a can't-say-fairer-than-that objective: "exchange ideas and unite efforts for the benefit of mankind".

It turns out there was an Irish branch of the MWIA up to relatively recently, but I had never heard of it. So, a couple of weeks ago when I came across the MWF's advent calendar on Twitter (a different medical woman of note was depicted every day in December), I had a thought:

Turns out, there was indeed an appetite:













Not exactly viral, I know, but still a pretty popular tweet as these things go.

We came up with a hashtag that was too good to be true: #WIMIN - Women in Medicine in Ireland Network.

Then I scurried off and bought a domain, and jimmied up a gmail account, and built a website. Of course, the next trick is to link them all together. Baby steps, chaps, baby steps. 

I am only a girl, after all. 

Nice Blog

One of the funniest things that has come out of writing this blog has been the variety and range of responses to it. Not necessarily to the content, but to its very existence. 

There are some people who will never fail to mention it every time I put up a new post. 
"I liked your blog", they say. 
Sometimes, they'll be more specific and say, "I liked that part where...." 
Sometimes, if I've said something a bit gloomy, or controversial, or perhaps just plain boring, they don't elaborate. They simply say, "I liked your blog."

Some people assiduously avoid mentioning it. I mean, it would be on pain of death that they would admit they've read it. How do I know they've read it? I can just tell. 

Some people feel like they ought to read it if they know they're going to meet me or be talking to me. It's like knowing who said Mass. They feel they would be caught out if they weren't up to speed. 

Some people read the interesting looking ones, and don't bother with the boring stuff. I would totally do that, if it were me. I sometimes don't read the boring ones either, in fact, I just type with my eyes closed. See kie this, 

It makes some people embarrassed. They are ashamed at my brashness, my self-exposure. Has she no self-respect, they think to themselves, consciously or not. They squirm on my behalf. 

Of course, there are probably a few strangers who read it, and I have no idea what they think. They could be U2 fans, for all I know, and there is no accounting for taste. 

So perhaps I will stick in a little secret code, a Masonic wink or nudge, that people can use if they don't want to admit that they've read it, but they'd prefer not to hear me tell the same old boring stories when we meet. 

Or they could just say, "Nice blog", and leave it at that.